The Therapist
by 8bitBatman
Summary: Nina Macintyre is a respected counsellor in Metropolis, who's never refused to help anybody. When a strange man with startlingly blue eyes wanders into her office, she promises to do what she can for him. The thing is, she wasn't counting on needing help herself, and if the time comes, she's not sure she can ask for it. Clarke/OC, MoS universe


Chapter 1 - A Distraction.

It was important to dress perfectly. My wardrobe was made up of greys, browns and blues - nothing too dark, nothing too colourful, nothing distracting. Today I selected grey trousers, a white button up shirt under a grey blazer. As a female, patients generally felt more at ease with me than they did one of my male colleagues. However, it was important that I dressed and acted professional at all times - skirts and blouses were impractical and tended to distract from what the patient really needed to discuss. They were also too easy to fiddle with. If I started playing with buttons and zips then it could put the patient on edge and encouraged them to do the same. My hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. Nothing too extravagant, but out of the way and unthreatening. I didn't apply any make-up either; it could make people uncomfortable. I did, however, slot some eyeliner and lipstick into the front pocket of my purse, as I was planning on meeting Jenny for a drink after work. Satisfied with my appearance, I bid my budgie, Jeff, goodbye and left my apartment, heading for the Metropolis Psychiatric Centre and Counselling.

Ruth smiled at me as I walked in, briefly glancing up from her computer. She was quiet, but obedient, and prolonged eye contact made her uneasy. My office was the second door along the corridor, and before I set up my desk with the appropriate papers and folders I did a quick sweep for old coffee mugs and cigarette packets - anything that could distract my patients. I pulled a few dead leaves off the potted plant in the corner. Dead things could unsettle a patient, and they created a negative environment. I liked the plant; the office seemed less clinical with something organic in it. Once everything looked to be in its place, I settled behind my desk, a useful table that could be pushed back into the counter so it didn't clutter the room. Besides, people were more open when there was nothing between us. I dug into a drawer for the file labelled 'Mitchell'. Harry Mitchell had been coming to these sessions for almost a month now, a chronically depressed middle-aged man who'd been diagnosed with mild schizophrenia following his divorce. His erratic mood swings were, in my experience, not a result of schizophrenia, but regardless they had cost him not only his wife, but his job, his friends, and full custody of his children. The eldest, Lily, visited him on rare occasions, and he hadn't seen his youngest, Harry junior, since his 4th birthday. Harry senior was a tentative man who was prone to aggression when he lost control of a situation - anything from a disagreement with a friend to a water bill he couldn't afford. I'd had two encounters with Harry's fury; on the first, he'd simply marched out of the centre, but on the second he had effectively demolished my office. After an apology, he'd returned and spoken tenderly of how his now estranged wife, Gina, would calmly make him a coffee and talk to him about his time at work and her day at the flower shop down in Hainsforth. Her therapeutic methods had left with his children, and Harry liked to reminisce about these past times. He wasn't due to make an appearance until 10am, and at 9.45 I took the opportunity to have a quick cigarette while reviewing my notes on our last meeting. We'd agreed to pick up this week on the subject of his old boss, who for the most part ignored how hard Harry worked in the steelyard, instead favouring another worker who was either his son-in-law or his wife's cousin; Harry seemed to confuse the two.

When I was finished, I dotted out the butt end in a small glass ashtray I kept outside on the windowsill, and sprayed the room with a light odour-neutraliser so that any smell of smoke was eradicated. At 10am precisely, Ruth let Harry through the reception into my office.

"Nina," Harry mumbled as way of greeting, taking his usual seat in the corner of the brown leather couch in the centre of the room. I'd rolled the desk back under the counter along the back of the room, so I sat approximately 7 feet away from him in a hard-backed chair, a close-lipped but welcoming smile on my face. This morning, Harry seemed forlorn and wistful. Lily had called early Sunday morning to regretfully inform him that she simply couldn't make the drive down to see him, as her friend was soon to be married and needed to get her measured for a bridesmaid dress. This prompted Harry to talk at length about his own wedding. Gina, his wife, had organised pretty much the whole thing with her mother, who appreciated Harry's input about as much as she appreciated the droppings birds left on her car. I asked Harry if his mother-in-law's opinion of him had been a long-term problem in his marriage.

"From the moment she met me," Harry confessed, burying his head in his hands. This was symptomatic of somebody who refused to accept an issue in their life, preferring to hide from it than to face it.

"Do you think if you'd addressed the problem sooner, it could have been resolved?" I asked him firmly. Sympathy was never helpful; if you give somebody an out, they'll take it and avoid discussing hard issues like these for the rest of their lives. Harry shook his head miserably.

"There was no reasoning with her," he protested sadly.

"Maybe you two were quite similar in that respect." I smiled to alleviate any tension. It worked - Harry managed a grimace and a sad sort of laugh.

"I am unreasonable. I don't change, I can't - it's why I'll never be happy." Self-diagnosis was common in psychiatric therapy. If you suggest something often enough, eventually the patient can face up to it in their own time, without having to be told. One of the misconceptions about my career is that people come to me with problems and I give them a solution, when in fact I don't offer anything of the sort. I simply retrace a person's troubled memories with them, and help them realise what they need to do on their own.

"So the only person stopping you from being happy is you," I clarified. Harry nodded, then looked at me meaningfully.

"Would you be friends with me? If you met me in a bar, or somewhere. Honestly - would you be my friend?"

"No," I answered truthfully. "But why would I?" You haven't made any attempt to become mine. Unless you try and take control of a situation, manipulate a conversation, actually take an interest in someone - you can't expect the world to come to you, Harry."

He was quiet for a while. "I don't think I expect everything from the world," he told me eventually. "I think the problem is that I don't expect anything at all. That's why I don't make any effort with people. I'm not expecting anything back."

"Then surprise yourself. Strike up a conversation with someone - anyone. The girl working behind the cashier at the supermarket, a patron in a bar, the postman. Ask them how their day's going, and listen, really listen, to what they say. A conversation is a three-part-exchange. You ask a question, the other person replies, and you give feedback to what they've said. You cannot have a cooperative conversation unless you listen to what other people are saying."

Harry nodded, looking determined. It made me proud to see him hopeful, for the first time since I'd met him. It made me even happier that he was beginning to combat his own problems, and address the fallbacks in his life. We spent the remaining thirty minutes of the session discussing his daughter Lily, and he left my office at 11.30 feeling hopeful that they'd be able to reschedule a meeting.

Usually on a Tuesday, I'd spend a while noting down important information from my session with Harry Mitchell and then head home for the rest of the day. However, I was only five minutes into my note-taking when Ruth from reception buzzed me.

"Hello?" I answered curiously. Usually if Ruth needed me for anything she came into my office and asked me.

"Hello Miss Macintyre," she replied politely, which struck me as odd. She knew me as Nina.

"There's a young man in the reception who'd like to know if you're free for a short session; he hasn't got an appointment."

Usually when people dropped in hoping for a session on the spot, Ruth would arrange a time slot for them; this man must be something special if Ruth was willing to try and pull strings for him. I didn't have any plans until the evening, and I didn't see much point in helping people if I wasn't willing to see them when they needed it most. Intrigued, I agreed.

"That's fine, thank you Ruth. I just need a few moments to finish my review, then you can let him in."

Hanging up, I hurriedly jotted a few last things on Harry's folder, then replaced it in the drawer by the desk. Checking the plant for any withering or fallen leaves, and straightening out the creases Harry had left in the couch, I sighed, tightening the band in my hair and smoothing the flyaway strands. Rather than sit and wait, I buzzed Ruth to let her know I was ready. Never make your patient wait, always appear eager.

I'd just moved to open the window and let a little fresh air into the room when I heard the door click closed behind me. As I turned to look at my newest patient, I could see immediately why Ruth had made an exception - he himself was an exceptionally attractive young specimen. He had the strong jaw that in centuries past would have belonged to nobility, and a strong physique. His hair was thick and dark, curling with ease and complimenting the small smile he didn't even seem to realise he was wearing.

Though each of these things was engaging enough on it's own to take a minute to analyse and digest, they weren't what caught my attention. It was his eyes - they were the clearest blue I'd ever seen. They were wide and friendly, but the more I looked the more I saw how cautious they seemed to be. He met my gaze confidently, but it seemed like a facade - his eyes were his shield. They seemed almost unreal. They were a distraction. And I didn't allow for distractions.


End file.
